


objects in mirror (are closer than they appear)

by beneathground



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, Oral Sex, Porn Without Plot, Sex on the Dining Room Table, Sexual Content, Who Needs a Plot Anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-31
Updated: 2012-08-31
Packaged: 2017-11-13 06:20:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/500435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beneathground/pseuds/beneathground
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for the be_compromised promptathon. Prompt from ashen_key: “I thought you said you weren't her boyfriend.” “Twelve-year-olds have boyfriends. I'm her man.”</p><p>I modified it a bit. Set during Iron Man 2. First work in this fandom, and in fandom in general in a long time. Thank you to workerbee73 for looking this over and making me write some exposition. I was more concerned with all the porn.</p>
    </blockquote>





	objects in mirror (are closer than they appear)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the be_compromised promptathon. Prompt from ashen_key: “I thought you said you weren't her boyfriend.” “Twelve-year-olds have boyfriends. I'm her man.”
> 
> I modified it a bit. Set during Iron Man 2. First work in this fandom, and in fandom in general in a long time. Thank you to workerbee73 for looking this over and making me write some exposition. I was more concerned with all the porn.

Natasha was getting very tired of babysitting Tony Stark.

She unlocked the door with a weary sigh, subtly checking her surroundings as she let herself in, wheeling her small suitcase behind her. She wanted a martini, her favorite pair of Lululemon yoga pants, and a bath, and hoped she would be able to enjoy at least one of those things without an interruption from either Stark or Pepper Potts. 

They were still in Monaco dealing with Vanko, but even from the other side of the world, Natasha had a feeling Stark would do his best to need something impossible from her. All she wanted was enough time to herself to have a drink and wash the plane ride off her.

She had had a thirteen hour flight back to LA, and Natasha had spent most of that time on her laptop dealing with various and sundry tasks Potts kept sending her, surely some kind of punishment for Tony going behind her back and hiring Natalie as his new assistant. Before she had left she had been sure to check the reading of his palladium poisoning. It was getting more toxic but Potts had emailed their flight plan and itinerary showing they would be on their way back late that evening and Natasha figured Stark would be fine until he got back to the States.

A horn beeped behind her twice and Natasha turned with a fake smile on her lips, waving off the Stark Industries lackey tasked with picking her up at LAX and driving her to Venice. He had insisted that the area was unsafe and waited until she had opened the door before he would leave. As if Natalie Rushman couldn't take care of herself.

She made her way into the apartment, resetting the alarm and checking the airy living room for anything out of place or suspicious. Everything seemed to be in order- not that it was her order, but it was order all the same. It was a bachelor pad, albeit a seldom-used bachelor pad as Clint didn't really have a whole lot of free time to hang around here going to the farmer's market and talking about how he was going to learn how to surf one day (that day hadn't come yet). 

Fury had been somewhat reluctant to sign off on her setting up her base of operations in another agent's personal home but Natasha was very good at getting what she wanted- which, she reminded him now and again, was why he paid her so much money. The location made for a pretty convenient commute to Malibu and Stark Industries in the Valley, and on a personal note, Natasha genuinely liked being in Clint's space. (It helped to know that he liked thinking about her sleeping in his bed every night, a fact he told her often, which usually led to some inappropriate Skype conversations.) He had taken great pains to renovate the apartment over the years whenever he'd had time off from S.H.I.E.L.D. and it was elegant and simple. Plus she had already taken over most of his dresser and half the closet long before this mission.

The place certainly had that bachelor pad feel, what with the giant flatscreen TV, multiple gaming systems, and simple decor. Still, a few flowers and throw pillows and it kind of looked like a place that a young woman such as Natalie Rushman could call home. If you squinted. Not that Natasha had any intention of letting her faux employer take a tour, but her job was all about appearances and appearances were easier to keep up with throw pillows.

With a sigh, she toed off her sky high pumps, letting them thump softly onto the carpet. Natalie's wardrobe wasn't required to be as risqué as some of the other missions she had had (Budapest came to mind; she was happy this did not necessitate a corset and lacy underwear, which were never comfortable but made that shoot out she and Clint had gotten into with the arms dealer they were trying to bring down all the more complicated), but office wear wasn't exactly comfortable either, especially when worn on a 13 hour transatlantic flight. In coach. Pencil skirts and soft blouses were a far cry from the catsuit she had designed and S.H.I.E.L.D. had custom-made for her. But she had been in Natalie's skin before: it was an easy mask to slip on and stay in for as long as necessary.

Natalie's Stark phone beeped angrily in her purse, and she sighed, typing in her password and pulling up fourteen emails from Potts and four frantic-sounding texts from Stark asking how one makes an omelet. Ever the dutiful assistant, Natasha answered Potts quickly and efficiently and then sent Stark several YouTube links, hoping that would suffice. 

She dropped the phone on the couch and headed for the wet bar- which she had rearranged to make room for the good vodka, the kind you couldn't even get in the States, the bourbon being relegated to a distant corner, sorry Clint- when the door bell rang. Standing very still, she stopped breathing and listened, waiting. The door bell rang again, more insistent. Natasha slid the small knife out of the holster high on her thigh that she had snuck through airport security and gripped it calmly, heading for the door. 

As she passed her purse, her civilian cell phone rang.

Without taking her eyes off the door, Natasha fished her phone out and checked the caller ID. C. Barton. Accepting the call, she held it between cheek and shoulder, keeping her hands free and ready. "I'm gonna have to call you back."

"I don't even get a hello?"

She rolled her eyes. "Not when I could have a situation to deal with."

"What kind of situation?" Clint asked, his tone suddenly serious.

"There's someone at the door."

"At what door?"

She eased into the hall silently. "Your front door. Who knows about this place?"

"Me. You. S.H.I.E.L.D. Probably Tony Stark. The city of Venice." He paused, then laughed. "Tash, I flew all this way. Let me in."

Natasha paused. "Let you in?"

"It's me, I'm at the door," Clint said and oh, she could hear the laughter in his voice and couldn't help smiling in response. She kept the phone to her ear and her hand on her knife and went to the front door, peeking out the peep hole and sure enough, Clint was standing on the step with a big grin on his face. She slid the phone into her bra but kept hold of the knife.

"You have a key," she said by way of greeting as she opened the door to him. "In fact, you have a deed."

"I have both," he agreed, "but I didn't want to compromise your cover."

Natasha rolled her eyes, sliding the knife back under her skirt, appearing to anyone watching but Clint like she was itching her leg. "Stark would have to pull his head out of his ass long enough to bother checking up on me, and he's too busy slowly poisoning himself to death."

"Right," Clint said, "but in case your boss has someone tailing you, I didn't want to waltz in like I own the place and then you have to explain who that incredibly handsome mystery man with the key to your condo was."

"I would have said you were the cable guy, of course," Natasha said, deadpan. 

Clint held up the bags in his hands in response. "Does the cable guy bring over Italian and groceries to make you breakfast in bed- in HIS bed- in the morning?"

Natasha leaned against the doorjamb and crossed her arms. "There better be bacon."

"Babe," Clint said with a laugh, shifting the bags, "there's always bacon."

"I hate when you call me that," she scolded. "Is that lasagna?" 

He twisted so she could see the white bag with Fiorentino's scrawled across in flowing script. It was her favorite. "Extra meat sauce," he said.

"Breadsticks?"

"Garlic knots."

"Alright. You can come in," Natasha said, holding the door open and letting him pass through, taking the chance to give him a once over. "Your timing is impeccable. I just got back from Monaco."  
He spied her suitcase. "You mean that literally?"

"I haven't even showered yet," Natasha said, quirking an eyebrow at him in invitation to join her while she got clean. Although, to be honest, neither of them were going to wait that long and they both knew it. They rarely stopped to clean up after a mission before they were tearing at each other's clothes, no matter how filthy and covered in who-knows-what they were.

"I read your report. Shouldn't you be taking care of Vanko yourself? Russian to Russian?" Clint asked, his body brushing dangerously close to hers. He was tanned and seemed like he'd bulked up a bit since he'd been sent to Madrid for an eight week assignment. There were fading cuts turning into faint white scars on one bicep; she would have to catalog the rest of his injuries later. 

Mostly she just stared at the way his soft gray t-shirt clung to him as if it were hungry, the perfect cut of his jeans and pair of old, well loved boots that he dropped his packages to unlace. 

"Director Fury is keeping an eye on things. He felt it best I keep my cover completely intact," she said, closing the door behind him. "Stark can handle Vanko for now. You're supposed to be in Madrid."

He straightened up and turned to her, giving her time to admire his profile before he looked at her, his head bent a little, staring out at her from under his lashes. She leaned against the door, casual. She could be, if she wanted to, casual that is, and he's the only one it wasn't an act around. 

But she felt warm and pleasant that he was suddenly, unexpectedly here with her, and eager, because they hadn't seen each other in over two months and sometimes late at night he would send her really filthy texts about what he wanted to do the next time he got her alone and that was the reason he bought them both non-S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued phones on a family plan that she made fun of him for. 

They had never really bothered to define whatever was between them beyond a vague "together" that they'd had to tell Coulson. But she had half a closet and a cell phone with a family plan, and he knew of all her secret hideouts around the world, and somewhere along the way Natasha had learned that there was someone out there who knew what it was like to feel the way she felt, to want to right the wrongs of the past, and that need tied them together deeper than any kind of label ever could.

Clint smiled an easy smile then, reaching out and brushing one of her long red curls, and her mind was suddenly calculating: how much time he must have here, Stark's ETA back in the States, how long it'll take for her to strip him and throw him onto the first available surface.

"I finished early, got back to New Mexico two days ago. Coulson told me to take a few days off, said something about how nice Malibu is this time of year, so I rented a car and here I am," Clint said, still watching her, his gaze ticking from her eyes to her lips. Natalie Rushman loved gloss and Clint loved it too. 

Natasha half-pouted half-smirked at him, felt the air shift and crackle around them with undeniable chemistry, knew he was thinking about where he'd like to be wearing that particular shade later on (his dick- and Natasha made a mental note to grab some baby wipes from the bathroom because she was not about to get a UTI from transferring her M.A.C. Pink Lemonade from her lips to his cock to her pussy), and Clint returned her smirk, placing one hand against the door behind her and getting all up in her personal space.

"And you were the one who didn't want him to know," Natasha reminded him, one hand reaching out and tugging on his belt buckle, pulling him flush against her, rolling her body into his as his other hand slid around her waist.

"I just didn't want to fill out those forms. Who needs things in triplicate these days?" His fingers skimmed the high-waist cut of her skirt, hands sliding down to palm her hips. "You make a hot secretary, Romanoff."

"I haven't been able to shoot anyone in weeks," she lamented, ghosting her lips over his cheek when he leaned close. She enjoyed this game they played when they hadn't seen each other, putting off what they really wanted because they could finally have it, because they were no longer separated by miles and oceans and time zones. The anticipation made her press against him, soft curves on unyielding muscle. She may have moaned, softly, and he only heard it because her lips were close to his ear.

"I'll take you to the range tomorrow," Clint promised, his hands moving up from her hips to frame her ribcage, fingers right underneath her breasts. He pushed against the bottom of her bra, lifting them so they strained even more against the top of her blouse and Natasha gave a fleeting thought to the button that didn't look like it was going to survive the onslaught. Clint didn't seem concerned, too busy staring down into her generous cleavage to worry about delicate buttons.

"That's shooting paper. I'd rather shoot someone who deserves it," Natasha complained.

Instead of answering, Clint kissed her, losing their little game. His lips met hers and she inhaled the soft sigh he let out as he opened his mouth to her, sealing them together. One hand found its way into her hair, tangling in the long red curls she had carefully gelled into place that morning. He pulled gently, angling her head the way he preferred, licking into her mouth in a kiss that was both filthy and sweet as only Clint Barton could make it. 

(His hands would be in her hair later, when she was on her hands and knees on his bed underneath him, and they'd travel from her hips to her hair and tug her head back and pull her upright so she was splayed in his lap straddling him, kneeling with him behind her, and his grip would be firm but unthreatening and Natasha would gasp and strain against him and want more as he moved inside her.)

Natasha felt him hard and heavy and grinding against her hip. With a series of short pecking kisses, he pulled back, a stupid grin on his face. She felt as relaxed as he looked, but all she allowed herself was a quick quirk of her lips.

"I have a plan," he said, smoothing a hand down her cheek.

"I love a man who thinks ahead," Natasha replied, finding her hands had slipped into his back pockets as they'd made out against the front door like a couple of teenagers and giving his ass a squeeze.

Clint grinned wolfishly at her. "My plan is this: Great food. Decent wine," and Natasha peered down at his feet and saw two bottles sticking out of the reuseable grocery bag he had brought, where the bacon presumably was; she wasn't a huge fan of wine but Clint liked it and he had good taste and she found it a lot more tolerable if she was tasting it from his lips later that night, so she nodded her approval at the plan so far, "and then I'm gonna go down on you for at least an hour, and then I'm going to fuck you until Stark has to physically come here and pull you out of my bed."

"I like the plan except for the use of the S-word," she said, pushing him away from her and gathering the bags at their feet, heading for the kitchen. "I'd rather Tony Stark not be privy to my sex life."

Clint followed close on her heels. "Why? You know he's probably got someone tailing you- what're you gonna do when Stark asks about your boyfriend?"

Natasha placed the bags on the counter, turning to face Clint with her eyebrow raised and finding him once again with his face inches from hers, that self-satisfied smirk firmly on his lips that shone faintly with her lipgloss. She crossed her arms over her chest and looked him right in the eye.

"What are you, twelve? You're not my boyfriend, Barton."

"Babe, of course not," Clint said, his eyes twinkling as he leaned in, touching her nose with his in an Eskimo kiss. "I'm your man." 

He laughed out loud at the groan she let out at his words, but she didn't exactly deny it either, and his grin could only be described as knowing. She took a few steps back and admired him, the way he stood surveying his kitchen. He fit perfectly, she decided, the final piece the house had been missing the entire time she'd occupied it. She cocked her head. The only thing still askew was that they both still had clothes on.

He seemed to be thinking the same thing because he stalked towards her suddenly. She moved in step with him as he backed her against the counter and let him boost her up next to the bags she'd just set down. She drew him in to the space between her thighs, fingertips gliding over his broad shoulders before lacing loosely behind his neck. He leaned in, tongue darting out to lick her lips, and she couldn't help herself, she squirmed against him. 

"Are you hungry?" he asked, lips brushing hers.

"Not yet," she replied, then shoved her tongue in his mouth to demonstrate a more appealing idea to eating. Clint's hand was worming its way down her front and up under her skirt, barely ghosting the lace of her panties before pulling out again. "Does that mess with your plan?"

Clint pulled back to smile at her, slowly popping the buttons of her shirt until it was hanging from her, her ample cleavage right in front of his face. He made an appreciative noise at her choice of underwear, nude satin and black lace. The balconet bra gave her more lift than usual, breasts swelling up above the fabric, the crest of one nipple peeking out. Clint looked as though his mouth was about to start watering.

"You're fucking hot, Nat," he said, tracing his pointer finger down into the tight space between her breasts. His mouth followed immediately after, fingers reaching into the cup of her bra and worrying her nipple as he nipped and tongued her cleavage. He seemed determined to burrow in as deep as he could get. Natasha arched her back, pushing her chest more directly into his face to aid in his task.

"Mm," she said, fingers curling into the short hairs at the base of his skull. "You should probably take that off."

He didn't even bother lifting his head. "Take what off?"

"All of it."

His grin was predatory as he straightened up and removed his hand from her bra. "I thought you'd never ask."

And then he leaned over her to the bags she sat next to and reached in, pulling out a carton of eggs.

"But I have to put away the groceries first," he said with a wicked smile. He planted a kiss on her lips and then broke out of the circle her legs created around his hips. She could have easily kept him right where he was but he was in a playful mood and she was curious about exactly where he was going with this. Surely the food wouldn't spoil in the time it would take for them to have sex on the counter. Twice.

"Your priorities are off," Natasha said. Clint had deposited the eggs in the fridge and stepped back between her legs. He leaned in to her, kissing her again, and she wrapped her arms around him and held him in place. She could at least make it harder for him.

Clint's next move turned out to be removing her skirt, sliding it down her thighs to reveal matching panties and a garter belt. He tossed it to the side and bent down, nipping at her underwear. Natasha leaned back and spread her legs, hooking one over his shoulder and using her knee to pull his head closer to her center. "Clint," she said, partly out of pleasure and partly in warning, as he licked at the fabric over her clit once and then tried to stand. This time, her thighs tightened around his neck in warning. "Where do you think you're going?"

He wrenched away from her and stood again. His hips thrust against her once, denim rubbing harshly against lace. "I told you. Groceries," Clint replied, reaching into the bag and removing the bacon. Natasha peered into the bag as he headed back to the fridge.

"You have more groceries than I have clothing," she remarked. Clint joined her again at the counter, looking into the grocery bag with her. 

"Look at that," he said. She hooked her legs around him again and this time she wasn't going to let him go. Her stocking-clad foot made its way to the front of his jeans, rubbing the hard bulge she found there. His hands found her underwear and she gracefully raised her hips to aid in their removal. She propped her foot on the counter, baring herself to him. His gaze shifted down. "Look at that."

Natasha smirked at him. "Take a closer look," she encouraged. 

"I better. It's been a while, I need to make sure I remember where everything is," Clint said with a smile, and then he was eye level with her sex. She was smooth and bare and glistening with arousal, and Clint didn't waste anymore time. His tongue touched her and she moaned, clutching his head to hold him in place. 

He tongued her slit briefly before moving up to lick at her clit. His mouth felt like heaven, laving her over and over again before sucking hard. Natasha ground herself against him, throwing her head back to rest against the cabinet and pressing her hips further to the edge, closer to his mouth. He was using lips and teeth and tongue to work her up, each touch making her moan. His fingers came into play, teasing her before thrusting up inside, immediately finding her g-spot and rubbing while his other hand reached up to pull the cup of her bra down and palm her breast as best he could.

Natasha's hips moved against the counter, bucking gently against Clint's chin. His eyes met hers at the exact moment his fingers pressed hard against that spot inside of her and his tongue worried her clit, and she said his name in that breathy way she knew made him crazy, squeezing her cunt around his fingers to keep them in place.

She gave herself over to the pleasure after that, rocking against his hands and his mouth and letting him make her feel good. He brought her higher and higher and her foot slipped off the counter, changing the angle at which his fingers worked her and she actually squeaked at the sensation. There was nothing for her to grab onto except for his hair and she held him in place as she felt that familiar fluttering. "I'm- Clint I'm going to-" she ground out and then came all over his face, wave after wave of pleasure slamming into her as she moaned and shook and nearly lost her mind from it.

He worked her down gently, tonguing her clit as his fingers eased out of her. His face and lips were shiny as he rose to kiss her, letting her taste herself on him, knowing she found it incredibly hot. Her tongue immediately came out to trace his lips and she sighed against him, letting him fuck her mouth with his, grinding her crotch against his stomach and smearing herself against his shirt.

"Clint," she said as his lips made their way to her neck. "Clint," a little more urgently this time. He lifted his head and quirked an eyebrow at her. She nodded at something behind his shoulder and he stiffened immediately, ready to spring into action against whatever threat was behind him. He turned his head. There was nothing. He looked back at her, confused, then back into the living room. Natasha nodded at the clock on the wall, pulling his head back to face hers so she could ghost her lips along his cheek to his ear. "That wasn't an hour."

She felt rather than heard his laugh, and then he was picking her up and carrying her to the dining room table. He laid her out like a feast, and she was content to lay back in her bra and garter as he first undid her knife holster with a knowing look and set it aside, and then pulled his shirt over his head and undid his jeans enough to pull his cock out.

"The lasagna is getting cold," Natasha reminded him as she reached a hand down to grasp him, thumb and middle finger meeting just barely around his girth before she pumped him a few times, her other hand playing with his balls. He had a beautiful cock, long and thick and straight, and Natasha was getting impatient to feel him inside of her again.

"Fuck the lasagna," Clint said, lining their lower bodies up with a hand on his dick. He rubbed his cockhead through the wetness she could feel leaking out of her, bumping into her clit and making her buck against him.

"Fuck me," she replied breathlessly, reaching both hands down to spread herself for him. With a groan he found her entrance and started to slide in, pulling back after an inch and then pushing in again. Natasha gripped him as he slid in a bit deeper and he bit back a groan.

"Tease."

"Who's teasing who here?" she pointed out as he did it again, his girth stretching her deliciously. Hooking both feet around his ass, Natasha used the leverage against his body to impale herself on his dick completely, feeling his balls slap against her gently at the force of her thrust. She threw her head back and cried out, and then Clint was fucking her hard, his hands surely leaving bruises on her hips as he held her in place. 

"Fuck," Clint said, his voice husky, his eyes trained on the way her breasts bounced with each thrust, threatening to escape their satin prison each time he bottomed out against her. She met his rhythm, bringing her legs together in front of Clint and resting them against his chest, her feet near his ear, knowingly making herself tighter. She felt full to bursting and ready to pop. "Jesus Nat, how long do you want this to last?" he asked, turning his head to kiss her ankle.

"Make me come, Clint," Natasha demanded, "fuck me with that big dick of yours until I come all over it."

She watched his pupils dilate even more and his grip on her hips tightened as he pistoned in and out of her. She felt his fingers on her clit and knew that meant he was close, probably closer than her, and she squeezed his cock, tightened her muscles as he continued to fuck her.

"Fuck Nat, Jesus, fuck- Come on, baby, you can do it, I wanna make you come so hard-" he said, his voice strained. She threw her head back and let him fuck her, let him work her body for an untold amount of time and then she was coming, the force of her orgasm surprising her. Clint kept right on fucking her through her orgasm, well after her inner walls had stopped fluttering around him. He slapped her ass hard, his hips straining against hers, his cock as deep as he could get as he groaned her name and came inside her with jerky movements. He collapsed down on top of her, still moving inside of her shallowly.

He pillowed his head on her breasts as they caught their breaths, and she curled her fingers in his hair to hold him close. His mouth found hers and he breathed harshly against her lips, kissing her again. Her tongue slid against his and he brushed a lock of hair off her face as they kissed, dirty and messy and exactly the way they should after how hot their sex had just been.

Clint pulled away first, levering himself off of Natasha with a groan. She whimpered as he pullled out of her, his cock wet and limp. Their combined fluids started to drip from her onto the table and she felt wanton and sexy and satisfied. She stretched her arms over her head and wiggled a little, trying to find a comfortable position on the hard wood.

"Come on," Clint said, lifting her easily and setting her on her feet. He reached behind her to undo her bra, finally releasing her breasts. He pulled her against him, groping her bare ass as she pushed his jeans off his hips and made him step out of them. 

She expected him to pull her in the direction of the shower but instead he maneuvered her back to the kitchen. She crossed her arms. "What?" he said with a boyish smirk, "we still have to put away the groceries."

"Here. Let me." Natasha grabbed the entire bag and headed for the fridge. She opened the door, put the whole thing onto the shelf, and shut it again, turning back to him completely naked and ready for round two. "Done."

Clint dangled the take out bag. Natasha crooked her finger at him, turning before he could take a step but knowing he was following her.

They ate the lasagna, cold, in bed, much later.


End file.
